she stood a child amidst
waving grasses a cupped
butterweed flower in her
hands slowly she closed
her eyes letting the
azure mist of the skies
drench her soul gently
she began to pluck each
petal a flaxen butterfly
fluttering to the ground
descending in a graceful
dance he loves me he
loves me not he loves
me he loves me. . .
she paused eyes

Pamela A. Rossow

24 thoughts on “Butterweed”

  1. Happy Sunday!

    Glad to see you at free Friday write …
    how are you?

    hope to see you at potluck poetry tonight, week 18 theme: language, signs, and symbols…

  2. Nice to meet you and read your work, Wordywoman!

    Sometimes we just don’t know which petal is which.
    I can’t blame her for pausing, especially when
    it comes to love. Too bad, there are only seems to be
    two choices. But, we adults know better than that. Yes?

    1. Thanks! That is true. . . she’s not sure. She used to pluck the petals (eyes open) until she would get the “correct” one (he loves me). However, she cannot cheat if she plucks with her eyes closed! I’m unsure about love being more than two choices (as an adult). If you consider friendship a love (as C.S. Lewis does and I do), then absolutely. In terms of eros or romantic love, I go with Toni Morrion’s ideology “thin love ain’t love.” There still seems to be only two choices. One demands action, the other none. Nice to “meet” you too!

  3. Think I commented on another of your poems before landing here – never mind!
    Very sweet with the little bit of hope at the end by finishing on ‘he loves me’…

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